


Toxic

by kathiya_ramani



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Changing POVs, Established Relationship, Jealousy, M/M, POV John Watson, Prostate Stimulation, Supernatural Elements, anal penetration, perineum massage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-01-15 13:29:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21254141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathiya_ramani/pseuds/kathiya_ramani
Summary: Crimes followed by a Get Sherlock message and a ghost consulting criminal is calling Sherlock Holmes for the game and John Watson ,of course,  follows





	1. Get Sherlock!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crimes followed by a Get Sherlock message and a ghost consulting criminal is calling Sherlock Holmes for the game and John Watson ,of course, follows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This premiers on the Halloween night. There are supernatural elements. However, this is not going to be so much of a spooky fic as it is an exploration of the relationship between Sherlock and John.  
Hope you enjoy.

Pov John Watson

It started with a string of petty crimes strewn around England with a " Get Sherlock !" message written on it, and Mycroft, trying to warn Sherlock away from them. This could be interpreted as yet another one of his vain attempts to keep his little brother away from deep waters and in relative safety. Or it could be a bait to actually engage Sherlock's interest in them. God knows Sherlock really can't keep his hands away from anything remotely akin to Moriarty's style, even if it was a copy cat. Even after seven years from the day the accursed criminal mastermind blew his evil brain into pieces upon the rooftop of bloody Bart's. Even after five years from the day Sherlock returned after single handedly eradicated the spider's crime web, he still misses him.

Then they escalated. Petty crimes grew into bigger ones the scale of human trafficking, arms dealing, operated in deep webs and dark webs and getting darker and darker, and "Get Sherlock'' started appearing in places outside of England, even Eastern Europe and South America. And Sherlock could not be kept wrapped up in cotton wool any longer.

One might think that the thrill of the chase would put him back in a good mood. It turned out that whoever is doing this is wicked good at his game, that he/she does not leave a trail behind at all, so there was nothing to chase but wild geese leading to a heap of dead ends. This frustrated Sherlock to no end.

It was as if everything disappears into the fog.  
Literally.  
That is, in the rare instances where we were actually able to find an eyewitness, all he could say was "the truck suddenly disappeared into the fog ", " the man suddenly disappeared into the fog", " the elephant disappeared into the fog" ( if it wasn't dangerous, it could have been ridiculous) and then when the fog disappeared, the ominous message appeared.  
It was as if a ghost is doing it all. Worse, if it is Jim Moriarty's ghost.

We are at a stale mate for more than three months now. A dormant threat was lingering somewhere there, and Sherlock appears to have let go of it for the time being, with a new found crave for physical intimacy, and Christ I'm not complaining. He is irresistible when the mood hits him. I'm absently caressing the side of my neck where the bite mark he left there yesterday is still fresh and tingling. The brat suddenly appeared at my GP during my lunch break, in nothing but his silk dressing gown and posh black silk pants. I tried to chide him, for prudence's sake, but fuck prudence, because it didn't take me thirty seconds to loose my resolve and to have him against the locker. The nip on the side of my neck which I'm caressing right now is the find mark he left on me in the throes of his ecstasy.  
He is my beautiful mad man, and there's nothing that I wouldn't dare to protect him, no matter how many " Get Sherlock"s appear around the corner.  
My phone pings.  
And it's him.  
"Murder and a Get Sherlock. Come on John, it's early Christmas "  
"Send me the address ", I reply back with no hesitation whatsoever.  
The game is on. Again.  
The address he sends me is of an art gallery. I hurry home to get my Sig, ask Molly to pick Rosie from the Daycare in case I get late, and take a cab.  
And ring Sherlock. He picks on the second ring.  
"Missed me? " I ask him lightly.  
"Hurry Daddy", he whispers into the phone.  
"Shut up, and fill me in with the details "  
" Thirty year old woman has been found dead on her bed by her husband this morning upon arrival from his night shift at the A and E. The body is drained of all the blood, with no injury to the body except for two tiny puncture wounds on the left side of her neck on the carotid artery. She is the third one to be found murdered in the same fashion during the last two weeks, and the first one in London aand the first one with the ghost note. And it is clear that the woman was murdered elsewhere, and the body was brought back to the bedroom. As usual, no evidence left as to the murderer but the Get Sherlock message written in her own blood, using her own finger on the bed sheet. It's neat…."  
He draws a breath and chuckles. He is on to something.  
"Yes, Sherlock, what is it? What has the ghost done wrong? "  
"Oh it's not the ghost. It's the victim. "  
He wants me to ask him so he can preen.  
"Why am I supposed to meet you at an art gallery if the body was found in her bedroom "  
"Because that is where she was murdered John"  
"How do you know this? "  
Then the stream of deductions resumes where he explains to me in brilliant and vivid details how he concluded the woman was a socially introvert modern art lover who has been sexually frustrated because she was playing beard to her husband who is a secretly gay para medic. And that she met her secret lover at this particular art gallery, had wine , was wearing a perfume which had traces of rosemary and that the secret lover was, in fact, the killer.  
"You know that's hot" I breathe into the phone.  
"What? ", he asks, nonplussed.  
"The way you deduce stuff, clever boy"  
He takes a moment to answer  
"Then hurry the fuck up and bring your ass here, John Watson "  
"Five minutes away"  
"Good"  
"And I'm gonna fuck you senseless "  
"Not at the art gallery "  
"Why on earth not? "  
"Could possibly get you marked as the next target "  
"How? "  
"How on Earth would I know how serial killers mark their next targets?"  
"Oh I know that you know how exactly they mark their next target Sherlock Holmes. In all probability you are already inside the killer's head", I tell him while I pay the cabby and step into the medieval l building. Sherlock and a few from the NSY are peering into the electronic surveillance feed from last night. They have spotted her looking at a piece of Art with a man who is wearing a hoodie.  
Greg looks glad that I arrived, and Sherlock is beaming.  
"Hey, mate! He claims that the murder happened here but if it did, where did all that blood go? " Greg asks with a put upon expression, which has become his wallpaper look around Sherlock.  
"Edward Cullen? " I offer.  
"Who? ", asks Sherlock.  
"That makes a lot of sense", Greg nods his head.  
"Who is Edward Cullen?"  
" He is a cute twink, Sherlock ", I explain helpfully, teasing him on the expense of his ignorance in popular cultural references.  
"And a vampire ", Greg joins in.  
"Imbeciles ", Sherlock mutters darkly.  
Suddenly the CCTV footage fills with a thick white fog, which mysteriously appeared out of nowhere. It lingers for not more than five seconds, and when it clears, the woman and her companion has disappeared with it.  
"That's it. They just disappear. Just like that"  
"It's an old trick." Sherlock begins, "any idiot can manage -"  
He could never finish his derisive utterance.  
A fog so thick and dark engulfs us that it is impossible for me to see my own hand. I cry Sherlock's name and reach out for him but all I can feel is the void.  
"John", I hear alarm in his voice somewhere to my left, and it sounded like he is moving away from me.  
"SHERLOCK?"  
The fog disappears.  
And it has taken Sherlock with it.  
Terror grips me .

Greg dispatches cops to different stories of the ancient building in search of Sherlock and I join a Sargent Chris to check the basement, where the management of the Art Gallery informed us that there was an ancient wine cellar.  
A trap door opened into a stone staircase which leads into the dark, damp and cold basement. There is dead silence inside and we cautiously step down into the yawning darkness below . My hand is steady and ready on my trusty Sig. I smell mould, dampness, rosemary and blood.  
Then I hear a whimper. A thud.  
I train my gun at the darkness as I tamp down my urge to cry out for Sherlock. But I know he is here.  
I look back at the Sargent. Both our eyes are getting used to the darkness and I know that he has also seen what I see. Two faint figures holding someone down. Someone who is struggling weekly.  
Hang on, motherfuckers. No ghost can harm Sherlock and get away with it. I train my gun. Can't take aim from here.  
I'm inching closer. I smell blood. I'm rather hysterical but I can't lose it. Not now.  
The one who is holding Sherlock down looks up , and straight into my eyes. "Kill me now, pet, or suffer the consequences", he says. In the darkness I see that Sherlock is not moving, fallen in wrong angles, a dark flow of blood seeping from his exposed neck. And that's all it takes for me to raise my hand and send a single kill shot right through his forehead.

With a whooshing sound the other accomplice disappears into a fog.

"Jesus! ", cries Chris.

"Call for back up" I tell him as Im desperately checking Sherlock's vitals. His pulse is there, strong even if it is a bit sketchy. Good. Don't be dead. I make a makeshift bandage with his scarf.

I hear back up arriving. Nice timing, Chris.

"Alright, Sherlock, can you hear me. You are fine. We are taking you to the A&E.You are doing wonderful….Hang on there for me"

Then Sherlock stirs. He is trying to tell me something.

"John… it isn't wine.. It's all .....blood"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave comments, we love them. 
> 
> Martin Freeman is cool in his Ghost Busters Halloween outfit. Who do ya gonna call???


	2. Mine, my own poison

Pov John Watson 

" How many times John ?? Do not touch my experiments.", an angry Sherlock Holmes bellows from the kitchen. 

Three days after the incident at the wine cellar where we found a disturbing amount of barrels of human blood preserved in a concoction which included rosemary and whatnot, and one of the suspects dead and other disappeared, Sherlock is in his stroppiest. 

" I won't, if you clean them afterwards" I simply tell him.  
" These are important experiments, you leave them as they are!"  
"Here I thought you were trying to figure out the blood preservative but what kind of an experiment is setting fire to.. Wait, that's my JUMPER AGAIN? I won't stand this"  
" Do you know what's more off putting than a drama queen? A drama queen with a hideous sense of fashion. Seriously, John? You're a doctor with a mediocre brain, it's impossible to explain to you all the variables pertaining to experiments of this kind.  
And you won't stand it ???? Who are you to command me?It's Baker Street ! 'I came first'" he freezes, knowing he has stepped the line. "I take that back.", he hastens to amend.  
Not even a genuine apology, not that I mind his bitching, god knows how resilient I have become to that.  
" Alright, I'm not fighting with you. I'm going out I need some air. And when I come back, I need the kitchen top clean of this mess"  
"It won't be. I need to finish this. .For science John."  
" Yeah alright, how long do you need to finish this?"  
" I don't know... These are critical , time sensitive experiments…"  
"You are a scientist you can at least contemplate"  
" I'm a scientist John, not a fortune teller (you imbecile implied) ... If I am to predict time I need data !data !! data!!! I don't guess. Now tell me (pinning me with the laser sharp gaze of the deductive mode… oh no this bodes no good) ... Why is it that you need this kitchen all cleaned up. Why this fastidiousness all of a sudden.(rhetorical question ) Are you planning to invite one of those nurses of yours?"  
He glowers.  
I may not be the expert of the science of deduction, but I am definitely well versed in the science of Sherlock Holmes to know that he has deduced exactly who is visiting me today, and that it is not one of the nurses. And that he has known this from the morning, hence the setting up of the god knows what experiment. And the jibe at the mediocre brain of the doctors. Genius. A grudging half smile appears on my face before I can check it.  
"The nurses are not mine, Sherlock. Actually one of my colleagues is coming for help. She wants to run her latest write up through me because I am a surgeon with first hand experience of battlefield emergencies Sherlock, it's all professional "  
Sherlock whistles furiously, if that is at all possible.  
"Oooh, a doctor? A doctor with a military kink. Good for you. She is a vegan, and she is boring. And please remind the 'doctor' that this is my flat where I consult my clients and we don't entertain dillusional doctors who regard themselves as professional writers but on hindsight are simply planning to get into one another's pants"  
And then he reminds himself to breathe a little.  
"Oh, yeah, um I'm sorry.Your flat.I'll just, leave you to your experiments then."  
"No. .. stop."  
" It's your flat. Do whatever you please with it"  
" You can't just leave with that kicked puppy face making yourself look like the victim"  
There is a very thin line between John Watson and Hulk and he is trying to trod on that line. I know this game, Holmes. Doesn't mean I'm not about to lose it in a minute.  
"I'm not a victim, mind you" 

Time for strategic retreat. 

"If you can't stand a guest, I'll host her elsewhere."  
'Fine then" , Sherlock quips. "Go host your guest" he makes the 't' s extra plosive and somehow makes them sound like expletives. Annoying little git in his posh silk robes and useless goggles. I grab my jacket. 

" I sure as hell will"

"But never touch my experiments.Are we clear about that ?"

"Fucking clear" I bark at the insufferable git,  
"And mind you, before you go all science on me, that I am the only person between the two of us that went all sciency and got a degree and got recognized for it"

"But here I am investing myself in science while you are pathetically trying so much to get a doctorly leg over. Its very clear to me that I am not good enough for you…"

"Your mind is depraved if you think I shag anything with two legs you idiot. Depraved. I can't be dealing with your baseless insecurities. Be an adult for once"

" My insecurities? You think I didn't see that vile thing, hah? ", he pointedly looks at the side of my neck.  
That halts me in my tracks.  
"Come again. What are you implying?"  
"Can you deny , that last week you had a tryst with somebody ? I saw those hickeys on your neck.Can you deny it John ?Or am I hallucinating? Paranoid ?"

My eyebrows hit my hairline !  
"You bit my neck last week and now you have forgotten it?UnFuckingBelievable!"

"I did not John"

"Utter nonsense. What is wrong with you?"

"I know we are not in a committed relationship.. but you should not have cheated on me"

"Seriously? Sherlock? Are you having a brain aneurysm?You came to my clinic and you said you wanted me so much and bit my neck.Then we had sex!."

"I know my own bite marks John"

I'm not doing this. The madman wants to get a rise out of me and is prepared to go to any length to do that, apparently. I'm not rising to his bait. 

"Alright I'm out"

"It wasn't mine"

"You're crazy"

"Yes I am... I am. For thinking that I meant something to you-"  
"Look here-"  
"-But I simply don't."  
"No don't"  
"So yes let me be alone with my experiments and you go host your pretty guest"

"I'm out."

"Good luck" 

That's it. That does it for me. 

" No you don't get to do this to me"

"Oh! I am doing this now ?You ruined everything John. You bloody cheated on me.And now I am the one who is doing things wrong ...?"

" Are you saying these hurtful things just to spite me or have you really forgotten?Look Sherlock, I don't.. I won't cheat on you. Upon the honor of everything that I hold dear, I won't. I haven't . Not since we started this... Whatever little disagreements we have had between us, I have never fancied another person afterwards . Just tell me what's wrong with you"

" I want you to leave me right now"

"No, listen, we'll do an MRI again, alright? Maybe your concussion from that incident in the wine cellar is more serious than we thought. Come on Sherlock, ...Won't take long!"

" Okay... fine.Anything to prove Doctor Watson right" he shoves a Petri dish away and it falls with a clang, whatever vile thing that had been growing in it is now spilt on the kitchen floor. But that's not what I am concerned about right now. Sherlock is livid. Sherlock rarely gets actually angry although he can convincingly fake it. This isn't his normal. 

"Yes, that's good. Come with me now?"

"Now?? You want to run the test on me now?"

"Yeah, because I'd rather have you diagnosed with an aneurysm than knowing that you have willingly deleted something that I thought was a beautiful and a passionate spontaneous romantic encounter between the two of us! "

"Ugh, sentiment! I make conscious decisions about the things I delete, John. And I don't delete sexual encounters with you. In fact, I do have a separate wing in my mind palace where I keep them stored in vivid detail. "

Ugh! Sentiment, really. I suddenly find myself speechless to know that I somehow occupy such an important part of that brilliant brain and that he actually chose to tell me that. That, in Sherlockian, , is the most honest declaration of love and devotion one could ever receive. ! I don't dare comment on it lest I ruin the moment by making him self conscious. But I do want to gather the ridiculous man in my arms and snog him senseless.  
Maybe my want shows in my face, because he swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing , and his blush deepens.  
I almost take a step towards him.  
Almost.  
And the doorbell chooses to ring.  
Who repaired the cock-blocking doorbell? It had been lying dormant inside the fridge for a small eternity !

" Well, it seems like Dr. Alexandra is early ", I tell him resignedly. "Mind if I..?'' I gesture towards the door.

"Wow!! Happy hosting John" Sherlockian eyeroll follows.

"Be nice. She's not a date, Sherlock. She's here for help"

He gets up, and removes the posh silk dressing gown in one sweep and stands gloriously naked. " Your body language suggested you were about to kiss me senseless, John". He glides towards me with predatory intent.

Impossible! 

"Sherlock for Christ's sake wear the damned robe!!!! " I hiss at him, making towards the door. 

"Don't leave me John! " something between command and desperation lingers in his voice. 

"Well It's just seventeen steps to the door!! Be a gentleman Sherlock " I am furious and aroused. Which is bloody inconvenient to say the least, given the circumstances. 

The doorbell stops ringing and we both hear Mrs. H escorting Alexa upstairs. And Sherlock chooses to wrap himself around me seamlessly like a vine. 

Inconvenient hard on down there tenting my jeans. Hell. 

"Sherlock, please. It's rude." l de-tangle myself from his octopus tentacles and go to the door,mouthing at him to 'behave'.  
In response to that, he stomps to the bedroom and closes the door with a bang. Leaving me to open the door and welcome Dr. Alexandria Roberts. A bit over affectionate and probably has the said military kink (Sherlock is rarely wrong deducing my girl friends even all those years ago) I'm glad Sherlock just locked the door behind him.But to my displeasure he starts playing his detuned violin, grating on my nerves. I look pleadingly at Alexa for apology and she just nods it away playfully. Switching into the professional mode, she starts discussing with me about the sutures used in emergency situations in the war zones and I try being helpful.  
She looks very willing,and has a nice cleavage. Not that I'm checking out., ok, may be a little.  
Sherlock doesn't have breasts,not that I mind.Sherlock is lovely. WHen he is not being an intolerable asshole that is. Suddenly I hear something crashing in the kitchen, and there you are staring right at me reading all my recent thoughts.Shit.  
He is dressed to kill, hair artfully curled, the suit clinging to his form. He fills the kettle and chirps " tea, dear doctors? "  
I'm sure he is planning to poison Alexa. Or me. Or both of us. 

"Doctor Alexa, meet Sherlock. My flatmate" I babble the first thing in my mind without even giving it a thought.  
"Flatmate ?" Sherlock repeats spitting venom.  
The fuck have I done ?"My err…"  
" Yes... His flatmate.Sherlock Holmes.How helpful has he been?  
"Very, Mr. Holmes. Glad to finally meet you"  
"Good.Doctor Watson here is quite the bachelor, if you were thinking about hitting on."  
I listen in pure horror  
"Christ, Sherlock! "  
"What do you think about doctor Watson here, Doctor?"  
"She doesn't think anything, she's on her way out"  
"Oh!Is she ?"  
And now there is a twinkle of mirth in Alexa's eyes as she watches the exchange.  
I'm definitely going to die of shame. Thank you Sherlock.  
"Oh, I think he is a perfectly handsome bloke. That nose is kinda cute too, if you ask me, Mr. Holmes", she winks.  
She winks!  
Oh god

"OK, do me a favor and shut up now, Sherlock? ." I smile a little. Sherlock looks the other way, but is peripherally watching me still. I turn to Alexa to bid her farewell . "Thank you, Doctor Watson, I'll call you back"  
"Of course you will" Sherlock mutters. 

One would think that my horror ends there. But no. Alexa has other plans. 

The feisty bitch. She's enjoying this too much and grabs my ass on her way out,cherry on the top.Thanks for the help. .And that went straight to my dick.Exactly what I need right now.an unwelcomed erection.He is reading right through me now, isn't he?

" Go after her" Sherlock spits out. His voice is low, yet full of sarcasm but with a sense of defeat.I can't do this now. I'm not dealing with his insecurities when I am angry, aroused, and ashamed.I grab my wallet and keys and get out of the flat. Think whatever you want. I'm not going after a woman. Not after I had you. Better believe it Sherlock Holmes. 

***************************************************

I am at Regent's Park, slumped miserably on a park bench, head in my hands and cursing myself for being an exceptional asshole. My initial anger has now died down, and I'm beginning to see how cruel I was to Sherlock.  
When I stole a glance at him while banging the door behind me, I had a glimpse of the dejection on his face and now it's killing me. He asked me to be with him. 

He was jealous and possessive and a bit out of his mind, but that is because he loves me and he is an emotional toddler who has never been in a relationship before. I am supposed to be the grown up one. See how good I am at being that. 

What kind of a sick bastard am I? Hurting him time and again.  
I can't go back now. Can't face him.. I'm a shit partner.But I wouldn't cheat on him. He really doesn't know me well, does he? He'd know where I have been, what I had been eating, whom I was seeing and what I would be planning to do six months from now but he doesn't really understands that there's no one else I'd love as deeply as I love him, has never been.  
I do, Sherlock. Have always done. Even when you were pretending to be dead, and much later, when I was still in the middle of the shipwreck that was my marriage to the woman who has no name.  
From the corner of my eye I see Sherlock's silhouette.  
I sigh. Let me do this. Let me beg you to forgive me one last time.  
I turn, and look at him.  
He looks pale. Paler than when I left him. He looks haunted. Oh Christ!  
I fly to him, and take his face between my hands.  
"Sher, I'm sorry! " I heave a breath. He watches me calmly.  
"I'm so sorry I- I won't touch your experiments and I will let you burn all my jumpers and pants and…Just know this one thing, Sherlock Holmes ...you are all I've ever wanted. And I won't cheat you. Soldier's honor."  
I trace your cheekbone with my index finger.  
Your lips are even more inviting than usual. I may have raised my neck to reach them with mine.  
"Not here, John "  
" No of course , not here. Let's get back home"  
"Home. No, not home. Let's go to the wine cellar where I was almost killed. "  
I wince.  
"Where you saved me.", he adds, as an afterthought .  
I duck my head.  
"Make love to me, John Watson. Make me forget everything else"  
"Yes, oh god yes"  
You are crazy, Sherlock . You could be weird. Bizarre. And that is just one reason why I would follow you to the hell and back. If you say the wine cellar, wine cellar it will be.  
It's dark in here . But he has come ready. He lights up some candles, and in the still and dead silence, his face is almost ethereal in the faint light of the candles.  
He is so silent and a bit monotonous. I understand that he hasn't exactly forgiven me.  
"Sherlock "  
I whisper.  
But in the stillness my whisper is so loud I feel scared. He looks at me with those heterochromic eyes.  
Wrapped in darkness, stillness and mystery, looking like moonlight in a dark forest. Oh how I love you! 

And to think that I almost lost him.  
Right here.  
But he looks even more elusive than he usually does. His silence is vengeful, punishing, killing.  
But I will have him no other way. 

I place my hands on his hips, and he watches me like a hawk.  
Challenge?  
Accepted.  
I catch his lips with mine.  
Irresponsive.  
He doesn't even let me coax his mouth open with my tongue.  
I'm not backing off. Not for nothing am I a soldier, Sherlock, I will soldier on.  
I begin worshipping him, with soft presses of my lips, soft caresses of the tip of my tongue, soft nibbles… on every bit of exposed skin on him. And he lets me slide his Belstaf off of him, and open the buttons of his crisp white shirt, and explore more skin… .  
And finally,  
The softest of the softest whimpers from him , penetrate through the stubborn silence.  
I feel his skin coming alive under my fingertips, warmer and livelier.  
Then he melts into my touch.  
Completely giving himself up to me.  
I have seen no other human being assume complete power over me by surrendering to me the way he does. 

"Lube! In my trouser pocket ``he gasps.  
And later, while I ram into him like a man possessed, losing myself in the welcome warmth of his pliant body, I feel a sudden searing pain on the side of my neck. Immediately euphoria fills me, I cry out in ecstasy! 

And later, much later, I feel numb with release, dizzy with happiness. His eyes are inscrutable and cold and it disturbs me. But I'm too dizzy to actually get up and go after him when he leaves me without a single word. 

Night has fallen when I finally gather my bearings and get to Baker Street. He is still sitting at the microscope, as if he has not moved an inch from the place since this morning. 

Doesn't even acknowledge my presence with so much as a breath. 

I'm nonplussed.


	3. The Most Potent Drug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " John, I'm sorry for being an asshole. I'm addictive by nature, and you are the most potent drug I have ever encountered. I can't help being possessive "
> 
> This chapter is where we get our explicit rating. So yeah, smut!!!!!

Pov John Watson

Sherlock left me without a word at that god awful place and now he is playing the victim card? I simply don't understand why his face looks so distraught. How fair is that?I don't think I have time for another dose of his bullshit but I decide on a tentative approach.

'So, Sherlock, are we good now?'  
"Sorry... are you talking to me?"  
'I guess yeah, I am'  
"Why?"  
'I don't understand.Haven't I made myself clear?I'm sorry'  
" You look exhausted, get some rest"  
' Well, that's true...yup, I feel a bit dizzy'  
"Must have been a night.Good!"  
'Wasn't it?Good?"  
Sherlock gives me a curious look. Why does he keep sniffing and sniffling. Seriously though, a simple hug would have been nice.  
He just chooses to ignore me and gets back to his work.  
Isn't this xasperating. It's bloody inconvenient when he feigns ignorance when all I want to do is to gather him in my arms and hold him for a minute. Why the hell are you so prickly?

'Why 'are' you so prickly?'  
"Come again?"  
'Why... Umm'  
"Prickly? Is that what you said?"  
'What did I do wrong?'  
"I don't understand... Don't you Know me??? I can read you like an open book John..If you think you can hide things from me, you can't be more wrong "  
' I'm not HIDING anything from you why would I?'  
"Christ John! You are lying to my face now!"  
'What the fuck are you saying?Do you really have to be such an exasperating git about everything?'  
"Right! Right! I don't have to... It's your Goddamn life...Do whatever you like.However you like.I won't bother you"  
'YOU!sod this.You know what I would like to do right now?I'd like to have you across that kitchen top and FUCK THE BLOODY ATTITUDE OFF OF YOU'

He doesn't respond to that. Worse. He looks so very hurt as if he has been meted a physical blow.

Suddenly his phone pings, and he almost lunge at it as if it was a lifeline. Whatever the text is, it must have piqued his interest because he moves to take his coat ,ready to leave.

"Sherlock, what's going on? "

"Nothing " He takes a moment to consider whether to tell me or not. He takes a breath.  
" John Doe you shot three days back...at the wine cellar to save my life ...when I mattered to you of course , is missing from the morgue.I'll have to go."  
'I'm coming with you'  
"Be a good dad...at least? Be with Rosie. Her fever has returned. But of course you wouldn't know "

Has it?

"Anyway, you are not going on your own again.You are not going anywhere without me.I'm coming with you. Mrs. H can-"  
"How can one just cheat a person in one moment and wish to have authority over the same person the very next moment?"  
" Do you even know what you are saying? "  
"I am planning not to say anything to you ever again"  
'I'm glad you finally decided to keep that goddamned trap shut.'  
"Get out of my way... will you?"  
'No!'.  
"JUST FUCKING LET ME GO JOHN"  
Colour me surprised. Unpleasantly surprised. I've never heard him swear.

His phone rings.  
"Molly, be a dear and just text me, next time"  
"Sherlock. John Doe from the wine cellar has mysteriously reappeared. And It freaks me."  
"What? Are you high? "  
" I heard movement in the morgue while I was doing an autopsy on a fresh one, and when I checked I saw that he has returned. The body is warm, Sherlock. And no rigor mortis. I don't understand. "

"Well, Molly, whatever it is that you are using, I need some"

'Sherlock.Calm down' I tentatively touch Sherlock's elbow and look into his eyes.

"DO NOT TOUCH ME" , he snatches his arm away almost in a reflex and throws his phone at the wall so hard, it breaks into pieces. He seems to be surprised at the noise, and gives a look at the pieces of his phone scattered on the floor.

"Broke. Finally " , he says to himself.

'Christ' something is definitely wrong and I don't understand.Is that a tear in his eyes? Is he crying? Oh my God Sherlock! and without giving it a proper thought I paw at him, grab him, and press my lips on his.

"FUCK OFF", he pushes me away hard. "How dare you?How dare you?"

'Please...can we just sit down and talk'

"Is this what I am to you now?A heartless toy for you to fuck with?"  
'Sherlock, please, I never…'  
"Stop it! Stop it!"  
'I am.Yes!Yes, calm down'  
I'm very dizzy I might pass out. I slump myself on the chair and just look at him' I shouldn't have done that, love, I'm sorry' I throw about apologies all the time they have lost their meaning.

"Love? Who?Me?"

I can almost hear the noise of walls forming around him. He regards me coldly.

And I just don't have the strength to deal with this shit right now.

"I loathe to say this but I should have listened to Mycroft when he warned me not to get involved. "

"Never thought I'd live to see the day you said Mycroft was right."

He glares.

"Explain me this one last thing, Why her? Why Alexa? Do you regret it that I don't have a vagina? "

'That's a load of bullshit "

"You went and shagged her, you came back home reeking of wine and sex and now you are acting like its-"

Realization dawns on me. Sherlock genuinely doesn't remember having sex with me a few hours ago and I'm going to find out what's wrong with him.

"Alright. You are Sherlock Holmes. Just come here and deduce me. See if there is any tell in my body that might tell you I had been with a woman.Come on do that.DO that"

"So...not a woman then ? "

I watch him expectantly as he looms over me.

'Deduce who I was with'

" I don't care who you were with.I just care that it wasn't me"

'IT FUCKING WAS YOU!!!!"

"Took me for a fool, didn't you?"

'I MADE LOVE TO YOU AND YOU FORGET'

"Keep your voice down, there's a sick child sleeping up there?"

'GET THAT FUCKING MINDPALACE OF YOURS UNDER CONTROL'

I'm losing myself. I'm getting furious. This is bad.I'm shivering with rage. I'm seeing red. Just shut up Sherlock.

"STOP IT! STOP IT, you little liar. I knew I wouldn't be enough for you..GO FUCK THE WHOLE CITY DAMN IT.. BUT DON'T YOU DARE LIE TO MY FACE...STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT.  
STOP MAKING ME FEEL LIKE THERE IS SOME PROBLEM WITH ME!"

'Alright, calm down. Be rational.'

" RATIONAL ?? BE RATIONAL?"

'See here, Sherlock, look at my jumper. Do you see any traces of fluff of your Belstaf. You do, don't you?'  
"Yes I am the only one who wears a Belstaf"  
'Your hair? Left on me?Just see'  
"My hair?"  
'Your smell'  
''No John!''  
'Just see for yourself.Please, I beg you.Please, darling'  
"I don't see anything John. I can't see any traces of Sherlock Holmes in John Watson anymore."  
'Please Sherl'

He slumps down on his chair, tugging at his hair with both hands as if he is in acute pain.  
'I don't know why are you so keen on making things up.But you don't have to.I understand.'

You would have seen it, if you cared to look." I was with you the whole time. Something has made you forget it Sherlock, believe me"  
"I NEVER LEFT THE FLAT"  
"Alright, Sherlock .You came to me at the Regents park and wanted to go to the wine cellar. And we made out, there.Okay?  
Remember?"

He looks up at me with a derisive snort.  
"John Hamish Watson, I have let you walk all over me over and over again. But I'm not going to let you make me mad, or convince me that I am. Go get a bath."

He leaves.

**********************************"*"**""""*************

Pov: William Sherlock Scott Holmes

Greg Lestrade is at the morgue with Molly Hooper when I get there. John Doe is lying cold on the slab. The body is rigid and very much dead.

"But Sherlock, he was warm and there was no rigor mortis forty five minutes ago! " says Molly. I look closely at her for signs of a chemical high but disappointingly she is still her boring, efficient, pathologist self.

"I can attest to it that the body had gone missing this afternoon. Nobody has seen who took it out, or who returned it" says Lestrade.

I incline my head towards the head. There is something… strange. I pry the mouth open. Traces of new blood. The dead man winks at me. I jump back. The dead man is, again, very much dead.

The dead man just winked at me!

I look around to see if the other two has seen it. Seems not.

Maybe I'm delusional. Maybe there actually is something wrong. Maybe John was right.

"New blood. Find out whose. Expedite it"

I turn around. I want to get home. I don't feel safe. I hear someone's footsteps following me in the lonely corridor.

"What? ", I snap, turning around.

It is Molly, her eyes wide with fear.

"Sherlock you might probably think that I might be going mad but I saw what I saw..and, umm, I saw it wink at you"

She shakes her head, as if to clear it. "I'm sorry. I think I might need a coffee . You look a bit off. Is John OK. I probably should.. " she points her head at the morgue.

"Yes, Molly, you probably should "

I take a cab home.

I hear John in the loo.

I go to Rosie, who is in a fitful slumber.  
I feel guilty about making all that racket. I was besides myself. I silently pray to be shriven by the little innocent child. We are so damaged, mentally and physically and emotionally, John Watson and I. But if there is one thing that we cannot risk, it would be little Rosie.  
And I am enraged that John has had the impudent insolence to go philandering.  
But then, I should not have lost control the way I did. It was against my nature, my better judgement and everything that I have built up that made me who I am.  
The last time it happened, I was at Sherrinford, and Eurus had threatened to blow up Molly Hooper. I didn't anticipate John's abandonment would torment me as horribly as my demented sister has done.  
Then, I had nothing to lose.  
Today I had everything to lose.  
And I lost.  
A thud from the loo attracts my attention. Rosie stirs and I shush her back to sleep, my ears intent on the sound of the shower running in the loo.  
No sloshing of water. No stopping. It's just running.  
Intuition may sound unscientific for some, but it is far from the truth. My mind gathers data, processes them, analyses them and reach conclusions in a speed that is unreachable or unimaginable for a lesser mind that deductions arise in the form of intuition.  
I raise down the stairs and bang at the loo door.  
"John! Open the damn door!"  
No response from within. I lose no time to rush inside.  
John has fallen unconscious near the shower.  
And for the second time within the span of two hours, I lose myself.  
My John looks so pale and so frail. He can't look pale and frail. It is unacceptable. I feel his pulse, check his breathing, and chant his name all the while I carry him from the loo to our bedroom. I can't help but observe all the telltale signs of the man who had been with him.  
And I think I am going mad.  
John Watson may have his sins. But he is incapable of lying. He is the embodiment of chivalry and honor. It was his sincerity which forced me not to reveal the secret of my continued existence during those years I spent in feigned death, lest he puts himself in danger.  
It was utterly mad to accuse John Watson of lying to me.  
Because all the telltale signs of his body leads me but to one deduction.  
He had had sex with me, not five hours ago.  
While I was still here, tending to Rosie and gathering data on the tensile properties of John's jumpers under various temperatures. And I have documented evidence to support my being home at the said time.  
I roll John on his back and begin CPR.  
And he comes to, weakly whispering my name.  
Guilt sears through me all over again. I have been acting like a selfish idiot and refused to see reason when John beseeched me, and look what my untimely sentiment has cost us.  
"John, what happened? "  
He looks drained in every possible manner.  
" I passed out" he frowns. "And that's the second time it happened today"  
"Shhhh, just lie down "  
" I'm okay, don't fuss"  
"What was the first time? "  
"Oh! You've deleted that too? Sherlock, I don't like this. I don't like one bit of this. Look, delete me all you like, if our relationship is spam to your mind palace. But at least keep it in your mind to take my bloody word for it before you raise hell like Lucifer on Coke!!! "  
"Yeah, yeah, I'm sorry! " I placate him.  
He completely believes in what he thought he saw and I will have to act accordingly, till I figure out who the imposter is.  
'John, walk me through the evening. I need to remember. I think I must have traded our evening with the data I gathered later from my...er.. experiment"  
"Of course, you were preoccupied with whatever the nonsensical experiment that you keep cooking up in the kitchen, even while I was making love to you at the wine cellar. And you didn't even see me pass out the last time because you were in such a goddamned hurry to get back to your jumper-sacrificing ritual"  
I watch him, and widen my eyes as if I have had a sudden recollection of the evening's events.  
"Remember now? " he's asking.  
"A bit"  
Wine cellar.  
John smelling of Rosemary and formaldehyde..  
And then I notice two puncture marks on John's neck close the carotid artery. Human teeth. Thank god a knife wasn't used.  
I think I know exactly who lured John into the cellar.  
Looks like the blood wine makers still have some associates outside the prison.  
I don't tell John yet. There's no need to freak him out further, so to speak.

"Are we good now? " he whispers.

"Yes, John" I whisper back. This tingling sensation in my nose and the moisture in my eyes...I think I can safely blame them on the prolonged exposure to the Bunsen burner but I know it's not true.

I rest my cheek on his clavicle, surreptitiously taking his pulse on his left wrist. Which is gradually getting stronger.

"Missed you, John ", I mutter into his chest.

"You really shouldn't have "

His languid little chuckle and sensual murmur. If I ever thought I could live without this, I am idiotic than I thought I was.

"I'm sorry "

"Comere you madman, whatever are you sorry for? "

"Everything….. John, ", I lift my head and look him in the eye. "Punish me for being a silly brat"

He swallows, and his breathing hitches even as he shakes his head no. But then, since I am technically lying on top of him I could say with clear evidence that somewhere down south he is getting very much interested in the idea. I grind my semi hard penis on his and he gives out a low, sexy moan.

Yes. That. I couldn't live without that too. So I respond in kind. With a strength which would be unbelievable for someone who had been passed out about a half hour ago , his torso springs up even as he flips me down with his sturdy arms and in no time I'm across his knees and at his mercy.

I couldn't live without this at all. I'm panting as he slides my pyjama pants down and I am waiting for the sting of his hand as it connects with my bum. Or my upper thigh. It hasn't come yet.

Oh! Wait for it Sherlock. If your head is so inclined to be a bit swollen, try predicting John Watson.

A deft finger, slick with saliva slides between my buttocks, brushing tantalizingly over my anal opening on its way forward, finds my perenium. Then the wicked little thing starts slowly rubbing me there, teasing my opening on its way down, and stimulating my prostate from outside on its way up. The wicked surgeon's finger.

And I'm squirming, struggling for more friction, hitching my hips and wiggling my bum. OH! This is going to be a night of slow, exquisite torture. "You are gorgeous, Sherlock ", I hear him praising me in his mild, languorous, sexy murmer. " How did you even imagine, in that thick head of yours, that I would replace 'you' with someone else? "

"Need more", I pant, and grind my hard-on on his to make my point. "Fuck me, John, please "  
"Hmm, who calls the shots here now? "  
"You do, but I…"  
He withdraws his finger altogether and I whine in protest. How he reduces me into this whiny, shameles, needy man is still a mystery to me, if I dare secretly admit it to myself. Doesn't mean I don't love that.

"Come here. Kiss me like you mean it  
Don't half ass it like you did at the wine cellar then I might consider letting you come tonight "  
I shiver with the sheer number of emotions that are struggling to get the upper hand right now. Love, rage, envy, frustration, and emotions that I don't even know how to define. Whoever you are, you faceless villain who dared to kiss my John, you are going to suffer.very.much. I lunge at John, and pry his mouth open none too gently, and plunder the inside of his mouth with everything that I am. One possessive, passionate, arduous kiss after the other till they leave the both of us breathless. Till blood starts singing in my veins, fire crackles in my nerve endings. " Jesus, Sherlock ", groans John.  
I snarl at him. "Dare you say another man's name while I'm kissing you? "

He grabs a handful of my hair in his fist and tugs at it so my head is bent to his level, and kisses me right back with a ferver that rivals mine. " God! You jealous nutter, I won't "

" Inconvenient time to be religious John," I whisper into his ear, my lips hot and warm on his earlobes, because I intend to drive him crazy if we are to go down together, "Fuck me" , I nip at his earlobe.

"What's the magic word? "

" John. Please"

That's two magic words. That should do the trick.

A wicked smirk tugs at the corners of his thin , wet kiss swollen lips and his licks them as he regards me with hooded eyes. Like he is planning to eat me alive. Do John. Consume me. Devour me. Make me whole again like you do.

He then just lies back, throwing an arm over his eyes as if he is going to sleep, while I am hyperventilating, sitting in the V of his stretched thighs.

The only evidence that he is still very much interested in the proceedings is his erect penis at full mast , bigger than the average and literally weeping for attention .

"Lick it. Make it slick", he says, without sparing me a glance. And I haste to obey. His perfect hand caresses my head and the pleasant sensation at my hair follicles make me weak at my knees.

" Ride me, Sherlock ", he orders.

It is difficult, without manually losening up myself. But who am I to complain when both of us are feeling a tad sadomasochistic tonight. I sit on his rod, and with slow gyrations of my hips press myself onto him. I yelp when the sphincter open, and he throws his arm away, his eyes flying open. They are almost black as he holds mine. The desire in his eyes drives me on, and the pain is gradually turning into endorphin, oxytocin high as I impale myself on his cock to the hilt. I start riding him like a man possessed, chasing pleasure , straining my thighs and bending my torso so his cock massages my prostate each time I ride. " Touch yourself, love", says John, his voice catches, his not-affected facade crumbling down.

I take myself in my hand and start stroking myself .Pleasure builds up like an all consuming inferno into a crescendo of euphoria , I come with a shout. He follows as he always does.

As we are drifting off to sleep, I mumble into his skin, " John, I'm sorry for being an asshole. I'm addictive by nature, and you are the most potent drug I have ever encountered. I can't help being possessive "

"Mmm, love you", he replies, half asleep. Post coital glow making him look like a cherub in a renaissance painting .

*************************************************** NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

If u really want to know how cherubic john looks post coital, I'll just leave this here. Bye. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We love your comments and kudos . We adore them.


	4. The Dangers of Having a Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love is a much more vicious motive. And a dangerous disadvantage. Knowing this doesn't shield you against it. Even if you are dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet Conan Fitzgerald.  
And forgive me for the short chapter. I'll be back with more, later in the week. Promise!

**Pov : John Hamish Watson**

Morning finds Sherlock wrapped all over me, his limbs limp and entangled with mine, like an overly affectionate octopus. I run my hand with a gentle caress down his back, to his arse, and the caress lingers there. He stirs,moans and his eyes flutter open. Then he regards me silver eyes soft and sleepy...and smiles. Thank Christ. We almost lost each other, although I know deep down inside of me that it will take much more than that to severe me from Sherlock Holmes.  
Probably death.  
I press a kiss to his delicious mouth.  
In stark contrast to my sickness last night I feel very much invigorated. Even more than my usual self. Baby monitor says Rosie has gotten up so I carefully extricate myself from Sherlock and rush to my girl's side.

And later, I ask Mrs Hudson whether she looked after Rosie at any point yesterday to which she replied "No dear, Sherlock never left her side. He's such a mother-hen, that one. Who would have ever thought that Sherlock would dote on a baby the way he does with Rosie ".

Then who the fuck did I fuck yesterday.

*****************************************

**Pov Conan Fitzgerald**

It all began when he pointed his gun at me.

I have seen many a human beings in my five hundred and twenty three years of existence.

And upon the honor of the eyes that witnessed centuries of havoc, mayhem and pandemonium I must confess, men of John Watson's mettle are rare.

His gun hand is so sure, so lethal, so dangerous.  
His eyes are full of love , fear of loss, longing to hold.  
His face is as expressive as an open book that one would never tire of reading, catching all the nuances, reading the lines etched on it, and the lines that are hidden between them.

And the impact of the bullet caught me full and sure on my forehead that had I still been a human, I would have met with Satan in the blink of an eye.  
If it hadn't incapacitated me temporarily, I would have executed my initial plan, which was to Sire him.  
In fact, I went to him in the form of his lover to do exactly that.

And he revealed yet another wonder to me.

He makes love like a dream. He makes love like a pagan priest on a pilgrimage. Passionate, adoring, exalting. He caught me in his lust like wildfire catches Gossamer wings and I lost myself in him.

This!  
This hasn't happened in five hundred years.

I miss dear James.  
Dear James Moriarty.  
But of course he was a cunning one. A sly fox and a villainous son of a bitch. But he made things that much easier. How I hate legwork. He took the bulk of my burden, and fixed things for me.  
Of course he was not indispensable. I have been invincible for five hundred years, and I don't see any possibility of a threat or a challenge or in my case, a blessing, which might change that status in another five hundred years to come. I am the Lord of Flies they fear. I smuggle arms, I deal drugs, I feed terrorism, I wreak havoc on nations, I destroy empires and nobody even knows.  
Sherlock Holmes came close. But he came only so far as Jim Moriarty, who bit a bullet before betraying me.  
My sly pet.  
Because deep down inside he knew that I would exact revenge for him.  
Which I am doing right now.  
Burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes.  
Earlier I planned to do that by killing John Watson.  
But the man kindled something warm in me, first, by aiming that bullet to my forehead, then, by making love to me. Twice.  
So I have decided to keep him. I will turn him , bit by bit, so my venom won't destroy him. I will keep him by me, leashed and pampered forever and ever and ever.  
And Sherlock will burn.  
Sorry, I got carried away there.  
So, I was saying, I miss Jim. His minions did all the necessary legwork. Now that he isn't around, and that I am temporarily made weak by courtesy of John Watson's gun, there seems to be nobody to dispatch my ship of smuggled small arms and amo.  
I heard that the ship has arrived. .  
I will send my minions there tonight.  
Did I mention I hate legwork?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love, kudos, comments. They keep us going.


	5. Not Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If my days are numbered, I want to live what is left of it to the fullest because that's all I'm going to have, Sherlock. So don't cry, don't grieve, don't be sad because I'm here. I'm right here Sherlock. I'm not dead!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real life, which is of course tedious, had intervened. But I hope to regularly update from hence. Patience dear reader!

**Pov William Sherlock Scott Holmes **

On the outset, it looked like cancer. Cancer at its late stage,attacking and conquering various organs at once, and laying waste the man who is my life. The man who saved a thousand lives with his capable hands and compassionate heart is thus slowly succumbing to the merciless and lethal powers of nature. And I, who would have done anything and everything, who would die or defy my own death to save him, is thus forced to watch in hateful, dejected helplessness while death preyed on him right in front of my own eyes. 

John Watson and I, we have lived side by side with death for a decade, occasionally crossing our paths, looking it in the eye, almost tango dancing with it. It was part of the game. It was fun. 

But not this time. The irony of it is maddening, to say the least. John Watson dying at gunpoint, in the middle of the chase, in the heat of the adrenaline rush while Iam forced to trap his last breath in my mouth while giving him CPR- that was an almost inevitable dread that I sometimes feared. But this. Dying of a bloody cancer. There was no fanfare in it, is it? 

And the days together were numbered. 

I was in denial, raising pandemonium when and wherever possible looking for a cure, intimidating the hospital staff, threatening Mycroft, jumping at every straw. It drove me mad to see how John took everything in stride. My brave soldier. Brave to the last breath, even in his last battle. 

But I am not brave. Brave is the last thing that I am. 

I contemplated taking my own life. 

Seriously. 

Not before John goes, no. I would not do that to my John. But what use is my life, or the Work, or anything at all, if I am to spend an eternity without him by my side. I'll go rot in hell first. 

But not before he takes his leave for good. He smiles. He shaves. He cooks. He makes tea. He plays with Rosie. Does all the mundane domestic chores. He goes to the clinic too, and grumbles about ordinary strep cases and hypochondriac old ladies. Lies next to me in bed and sighs when he thinks I'm asleep. He pretends that the dark circles around his eyes have not deepened in the past few days, that the fear gnawing at him from within is non-existent.

It has been just a matter of time before one of us broke down. 

Inevitably, it was me, who could no longer stand his upbeat smile and god awful bravery. John is reading a fairytale to Rosie. They are both sprawled on the floor. John is doing voices and Rosie is squealing in delight. And John smiles at her. John smiles, and although the smile does not quite reach his eyes, Rosie is too young to notice. 

And I run into our bedroom, lock the door, and fall onto the bed, heaving , and bite the pillow which smells of John, so the noise of my sobs doesn't reach him. 

And I don't leave the confines of the bedroom for the rest of the day for the dread of meeting his eye and getting to know that he heard. I listen to him feeding Rosie, washing her, putting her to bed. He doesn't cook. Neither does he order take away. 

In the darkest hour of the night I feel his fingers carding through my hair and I squeeze my eyes shut as a fresh stream of tears threaten to break the floodgates .

"Sher, look at me… "

And I cannot but obey the soft whisper. 

"My...umm, my days are almost over, Sherlock. I know it's difficult to come to terms with but somehow, we have got to face it. And if.. If my days are numbered, I want to live what is left of it to the fullest because that's all I'm going to have, Sherlock. So don't cry, don't grieve, don't be sad because I'm here. I'm right here Sherlock. I'm not dead! " he hisses. 

And when he takes me, with a vigour so ferocious and wild that no traces of a sickness that is eating at him from inside is visible to my mortal senses, I go willingly. He makes me burn, he makes me keen, he makes me tremble with passion. He makes my blood sing in my veins, scorching with liquid desire. He brands the pale skin of my hips with the iron grip of his hands while he drives his hard rod into me, with the desperation of a man in the face of death. And I come untouched, spattering semen all over his chest, my moans ending in a wild crescendo. He cries in delight, spilling warmth of his life into the depths of me. 

I melt into him, when he embraces me after. 

And I can't hide my tears anymore. I am the one who is feverish. I am the one who feels ill. I am the one who is feeling the grim noose of death around my throat as I watch the earlier light slowly fading away from my John's eyes. 

I never thought it could get any worse. 

I have been too optimistic though. Doctor Mishra, the oncologist calls the next day to reveal us that it was no ordinary cancer. Rather it was neither ordinary nor cancer. 

"It's nothing like I have ever seen or heard about. It's as if the cancer cells are killing the patient's cells, while regenerating his internal organs. It's…. It's recreating Doctor Watson's body and I don't… understand how. "

And I am about to comment disparagingly about her idiocy and the general incompetence of Mycroft's staff with vengeful insults when Molly texts. 

The blood found inside the Winking-John Doe is indeed, that of John Watson's. 

If Baskerville has taught me anything, it is the fact that it is of utmost importance to the science of deduction that the observer has to have, in par with keen and alert sense of faculties, an open mind. The universe has too many dimensions that sometimes require something more than the empirical data reveals. 

John may say that I tune out things he sometimes utters as boring or irrelevant. This is not the case. I remember him mentioning an Edward Cullen. And I do a quick Google research on the name, and the sensational literature woven around it, which leads to Bram Stoker and his Dracula, and the Romanian mythology about vampires. No I'm not losing my mind. It is just that, the way John's encounter with the imposter ,what followed it and the hellish suffering that we are now going through is disturbingly complementary to the superstitions surrounding vampires. 

It is not easy to keep and open mind. 

I don't tell John about the text, and he doesn't pester me with questions. After the cancellation of an unnecessary chemotherapy, I send him to take Rosie from the daycare, making my hasty excuse to leave him and then rush to the morgue at St. Bart's. 

Molly lets me in, and I thank her before shooing her out. Then I take a closer look at the weeks old body laid out on the cold slab. 

He has such delicate features. He almost looks as soft as a woman. His face is so beautiful and guileless, peaceful as if he was in a deep slumber. He looks like a proper Botticelli. But I have seen worse. I pry open his mouth. 

And gasp in horror when the dead hands grab mine in a vice like cold grip.

I must be losing my mind. I must be… because he looks at me, and chuckles. "Stop prying, Sherlock! " 

Blood roars in my ears and bile rises to my throat. And he raises his head, his cold nose almost touched mine. " If you don't stop prying you know what happens "

His breath is stale and cold, and it's foul smell brings me back to my senses. A little. 

"W-what? " , I ask. My voice hoarse. 

He then stops chuckling, and gives me a look which is horrifying and amused at the same time. " Oh I'll burn the heart right out of you"

"Moriarty ?"

I know my voice sounds derailed. I must look derailed too. Probably I really am derailed. He snorts. 

"Oh please, don't be so daft. The bugger is dead _ . But I -am -not. _ And I have John Watson. I will. And there is nothing, Sherlock, nothing you can do about it. How does it feel to be burned?? Hmm? "

"I'll kill you "

"Oh! You can certainly try. Doesn't mean that you can stop me from claiming John. I have already licked the treat baby, and he's a fine piece of snack and I'm not gonna let you take him back"

"Shut up shut the fuck up! " I cry. 

I manage to pry one hand away from his grip with an almost supernatural effort. Because I have come ready, no matter how idiotic it may have looked earlier, even to me. In the wink of an eye I have taken out the wooden cross from the inner pocket of my coat and I'm stabbing his heart with all the strength that I can muster. Hot, fresh blood sprays from the wound and paint my face with it and he laughs at me. And the laugh drives me on. I stab him wherever I can reach like a man possessed, my conscience giving way to my desperation , and the undead man laughs still more. 

The commotion draws Molly into the room and she howls in horror before passing out, hitting the bloodied floor with a sickening thud. The moment's weakness that made me turn to look at her is all that he needs. In a dizzying speed I find myself pinned to the slab by the cold hands which are now slick with blood. 

"Sherlock Holmes, if you need John Watson back, come out and play the game. Not that I'm making any promises but still, I'm too bloody generous for my own good. One thing though. We, the undead, take our promises very very seriously. And Jim was my pet. I made a promise to him to exact revenge so I will, Sherlock Holmes. You really can't stop me. I'm a force unto myself. "

I watch numbly as he walks away, leaving bloody footsteps in his wake. He looks over his shoulder, first at Molly and then at me, and winks. "But John tastes so good. Have you ever tried? Well, you lost your chance. Don't try now. There's my venom in him "

Both my body and my brain come online with that and I lunge at him. He closes the door on his way out. "Ciao cariño mîo"

I fling the door open. 

The corridor is empty. 

No bloody footsteps. 

I turn back. 

The blood has vanished without a trace. The only evidence of what has just happened has indeed happened is the empty slab and the unconscious pathologist in the now stainless white coat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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